


Immortalised

by michii1213 (BuckytheDucky)



Series: Semicolon Project [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little bit of fluff, AU, Gen, Triggers, kinda cutesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/michii1213
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester's pissed. His boss is forcing him to sit in a booth for seven hours while the town celebrated whatever the street fair was meant to celebrate. Then, he gets the chance to help. And it's all so damn worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortalised

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings of blood, self-harm, suicide attempt.

With a sigh, Dean Winchester leaned against the wall. He was bored out of his mind; only two people had approached the booth in the last hour, and both had only requested Henna. He had no problem with Henna work, but it wasn’t the same as actual ink and a tattoo gun. He hated that he’d let his boss bully him into manning the booth for the night, but between the threat of being fired and the fact he actually liked his job, he had acquiesced to Crowley’s demands. He had to admit: Not being around the large crowd of people attending the street fair was far better than the alternative. He wasn’t really shy or anxious around people – he was just selective about who he chose to spend his time with.

 He plucked his phone off the small counter sitting beside him, typing out a message.

**To: Samsquatch (19:55):** _Dude. This sucks. Bring me food. I’m hungry._

**From: Samsquatch (20:02):** _On my way._

His brother showed up not even ten minutes later. A white paper bag was clutched in his hand, the large red and black letters on the side letting Dean know Sam had come from The Roadhouse. Sam passed the bag over without speaking, perching on the counter with a soft sigh. Dean was certain Sam had already been planning on visiting his brother, whether Crowley had permitted it or not; for once, Dean was grateful for Sam’s presence. He handed Sam his chicken wrap before pulling out his own burger. They ate in companionable silence, Dean only speaking when he needed a napkin to wipe the grease from his chin. While Sam generally avoided foods that would clog arteries, Dean relished them. He’d spent too much of his childhood skipping meals so that his little brother had a full belly. Between the constant moving from town to town and lack of funds from their father not holding down steady jobs, spending what little money they had on booze and bonds, Dean had grown up far too fast. He was Sam’s main caretaker by the time he was ten – had been ever since, due to John’s rather terrible parenting skills.

Dean cocked his head when he heard a loud cheer coming from outside the booth. Sam raised an eyebrow, the question plain in his eyes. Dean shrugged in response and popped the last bite of his burger into his mouth. He had just finished dragging the rough, brown napkin across his face and hands when the heavy curtain was pushed aside as an arm jutted through the hole. He hurried to scrub his hands at the sink, being sure to get the soap up to his elbows and under his nails before rinsing it all with hot water. Sam handed him paper towels from the dispenser, his hand covered by a latex glove. Dean slipped his own hands into a pair of the blue gloves and sat in the padded chair against the wall. Lightbulb A lit up on the wall, and he smiled to himself. _Finally_ , he thought as he pulled the equipment toward him.

He gazed down at the arm in front of him with the hope of having a spark of inspiration. Dark, coarse hair curled on the side of the limb that was facing down. The nails were trimmed neatly, no sign of dirt in the half-circle edges. Dean could still hear the cheering, but it was growing fainter by the second. His eyes widened when he looked closer. The pale skin was marred by even paler, thin lines criss-crossing across the wrist, and there, right at the base of the palm, was a jagged, rough circle – a scar. His heart clenched in his chest.

Dean could only imagine what had caused the person to mark up their skin like that. He tried to drag his eyes away from the sight, but he couldn’t. He knew those lines. He knew those scars far too well. He had only been sixteen when he’d first caught a glimpse of lines like that. John Winchester had been on another bender, gone for at least a week, leaving Dean alone with Sammy in the run-down motel room with no money, no food, and no way of getting either. Dean had stepped outside for a quick smoke off a cigarette he’d managed to convince some rich asshole to toss his way. He had just come back in and shut the door when he heard the loud thump from the bathroom. He’d nearly puked as soon as he saw Sammy, his Sammy, unconscious in the bathtub, the shirt he’d stolen from Dean soaking up as much blood as possible, the rest swirling in crimson rivulets along the bottom of the basin to slip down the drain. The mirror was no longer hanging above the sink; instead, shards cluttered the floor, reflecting the flickering light from above. One large, rough-edged piece rested beside Sam’s body. Dean had screamed, a raw, primal, _terrified_ scream, before rushing forward to pull Sam tight to his chest, his hands fumbling to stop the flow. He’d begged for Sammy to please be alright, c’mon, Sammy, don’t do this to me, man, don’t leave me. He didn’t remember much of that night besides the absolute fear of losing his baby brother. All he could recall was being unable to breathe, eventually passing out with his hand still holding a towel tightly to Sam’s arm, and waking up late the next morning to Bobby asleep in the bed across the room. John was still nowhere in sight.

Dean drew in an unsteady breath and glanced at Sam. His brother was giving him an inquisitive look. Dean shook his head, picked up the antiseptic wipes and a single-blade razor, and got to work. He hadn’t planned on adding anything other than the simple design, but hearing a female voice speaking from the outside.

“Castiel, are you alright? Dude, you’re taking this like a boss. I’d be crying like a bitch.”

The person Dean was tattooing – Castiel – didn’t respond. The name sounded like a name Dean remembered his mother saying when he was younger – Cassiel. An angel. He didn’t know why he was able to recall it so clearly; he figured it was just the way he’d thought the name was funny when he was five. He bit his lip and bent over the wrist further, taking extra care to make the tattoo perfect. He wiped away the extra ink and blood periodically. Finally, the design was finished. The semicolon covered the scar that had marred the skin, the detailed wings curving inwards at the ends as if to protect the symbol. He reached for a pen, tightening his grip on the wrist when Castiel tried pulling away, and slid the tip smoothly over the flesh of Castiel’s palm until the other let his fingers fall open. Dean didn’t second-guess himself, didn’t hesitate. He simply wrote his number with _If you want to talk_ on the skin and released Castiel.

Sam placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he was dropping the used paper towels and wipes into the trash bin. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Did you see...?”

“I saw. And... Dean, what you did, what you inked into him... That was amazing.”

Dean shrugged. “Hopefully it helps.”

“I think it will.”

Dean had just pulled his gloves off when he heard the rough, gravelly voice filter through the curtain.

“Uh... Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Dean smiled widely before turning away from the hole in the wall. He didn’t care if nobody else came to the window for anything at all during the rest of the night. Hearing Castiel’s appreciation for the tattoo... Feeling like Dean had actually helped someone... That was the best thing he could have had happen to him. And it more than made up for his boss forcing him to sit in the booth for seven hours. 


End file.
